by Maia Walczak
The Colour Black
Maia Walczak
First published in this edition in Great Britain 2014 by
Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd
98b Sumatra Road,
West Hampstead
London NW6 1PP
www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk
Copyright © 2014 Maia Walczak
The right of Maia Walczak to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 90976 202 2
eISBN 978 1 90976 208 4
Edited, designed and typeset by Head & Heart Publishing Services
www.headandheartpublishingservices.com
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Gomer, Llandysul, Wales
To all beings. And to ‘Being’ itself.
For when you look through a prism,
The light is refracted.
You don’t see what’s in front of you.
Your mind is distracted.
Contents
The Colour Black
Reality and Perception
Jet Black and Poppy Red
The Meaning of Meaning
The Man With No Name
Meeting Jack
An Imagined Life
That Smile
The Perfect Excuse
Breaking Bread
Luna
Blindness
The Forest
Mountains
The Colour Black
Playing Pretend
Books and Monsters
Two Favours
Knock Knock
First Stop
Lakes
The Shack
A Thousand Needles
Claustrophobia
Oak
Isabelle
Sproat Lake
Light at Cox Bay
Seeing Trees
Calm Before The Storm
A Few Minutes
Empty Belly
The Death of Stars
Running From Ghosts
The Plan
Closure
Adam
Lost
Jack
An Explosion of Stars
Colour
Epilogue: New Life
Acknowledgements
The Colour Black
Black is the absence of light.
Yet it is also the complete absorption of it.
Therefore, black can be both void of light and totally full of it.
Most days I am void of light, but I’ve had rare moments
when it has taken over me completely. - Silvia Cruz
Reality and Perception
When I was little I looked at the sea and I saw eternity. I looked at my hand and I was staring at infinity. The world was a divine dance, and the eyes through which I saw it were also infinite. The sea a dancing shimmering jewel that sung the most incredible song. The world a delicious magic trick to behold, and I, the little girl standing on the shore, knew that life was a gift in which I could marvel at this magic endlessly. An unknown and mysterious benefactor had bestowed this gift unto me. And yet, somehow, the giver, the receiver and the gift were inseparable. They were all one. For there were no divisions. No boundaries. I had all the time in the world to enjoy this weird and wonderful gift. For even though I hadn’t yet quite learned the trapping concept of time, I felt that no matter how much time there was before I died, there was enough – more than enough to enjoy this miracle. The colours, the sounds, the movement, the light, the wind, the warmth… all the infinite whispering song of the universe. What a gift to have so much time to enjoy something that didn’t even require time to make it enough. When I was a child, standing on the shore, I needed nothing more. I was complete. It was all complete. I had seen the miracle, and that was enough.
I looked up at my mami standing by my side. She was frowning. I knew she was wrong. Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see the turquoise, emeralds and jades singing to us and embracing us with their love? Couldn’t she feel it too? She bent down and put her arm around me. It wasn’t the same love I felt from the cliffs, the sand, the sky and the sea. It was different, but it was my mami’s love – beautiful, warm, safe.
‘Hurry Silvia,’ she said, ‘we have to go.’
My mami’s eyes and mine were open and looking. But she wasn’t stunned by the life that was pulsating, vibrating, before us. She wasn’t mesmerised by the colours. She wasn’t taken aback by the miracle of existence. She was numb to it. This divine magic trick was staring at her, and all she could say was ‘hurry up’. Her eyes only saw the sea. It was just the sea. That’s all she had to know. She had learnt the word for it. She had learnt all the labels for everything in the world, so she no longer had to truly see any of it.
‘We need to go.’
She picked me up and she ran.
*
We see life through a prism. We are animals. Our instinct is to survive. We must eat, drink, sleep, and protect ourselves from prey. We avoid death. We seek pleasure and run from pain. My mami knew she had to run, so she ran. Those guards were angry, very angry – they wouldn’t have hesitated with their guns. It wasn’t the first time Mami had snuck into some forbidden place to take photos during her journalism days. They probably already knew who she was, and if they didn’t, they would soon find out. She was easily recognisable and didn’t bother much with disguises.
Imagine if I had suddenly been able to make those men with their guns see what I could see and feel through my four-year-old eyes. They’d never threaten or kill anyone again. Why would they? They’d be too busy savouring the beauty and wonder of the universe and existence. Too busy enjoying this inexplicable gift. Had it been possible to suddenly shock them with the vision of this wonderful world, we’d never have had to run.
But what could I have said? What words could I have used? What could I have told them to make them see? To see the world for what it is, and not for what we are. To see the world clearly, without concepts. To experience life directly, without prisms. How can anyone possibly change the perception of another?
Luckily, that day on the beach, Mami picked me up and she ran.
Jet Black and Poppy Red
Twenty years on, I lay half naked on the cold marble floor, staring up at the ceiling. It was so cold. Maybe if I could stand physical coldness like this I’d be able to confront any cold reality. Coldness would become normal. Acceptable. Permissible. The joint was reaching its end. My hand moved slowly to my mouth and I inhaled one last time before placing the butt on the floor. I got up too quickly and the head rush blinded me for a few seconds.
It was time for a post-Sunday-joint treat: peanut butter, banana and chocolate sandwich with a cold vanilla shake to be enjoyed in front of the TV. Stupid TV. Mindless. But somehow far more mesmerising after two joints. The moving images and sounds became hypnotic, the tastes, textures and smell of the food so pleasurable. Why couldn’t this be a constant state? Today nothing mattered. Sunday: the day of rest. The day of forgetting everything. Almost forgetting.
I licked chocolate spread off my fingers, got up off the sofa and went back for seconds. I made another sandwich. Neat. Clean. I placed it on a small
white plate and set it down on the marble worktop. Clink. I turned around to look out of the panoramic windows: walls of glass that looked out at the city. San Diego looked hazy today. There was less contrast in the summer sky, the buildings and the mountains. The sun was shining, but everything looked faded. I placed both hands against the vast cold glass, pressed my cheek to it. Far below, the city was alive and moving as always. The cars, the people, the rush. If I could just step through and out from behind this solid invisible object and fly out over the city, far into the mountains. If I could just fly. Fly wherever. I looked back down at the streets below. What would it be like to fall all that way? I had a sudden spasm of vertigo and pulled back from the window. I turned back around to look at the room. The kitchen, the diner, the living room: all mine. All one huge cold space bordered by these glass walls that looked out onto the world. The sky that made me long to fly. And as I stood there, I had a rare moment of peace. Taking in this cold heartless lie of a home, I suddenly felt a temporary peace.
I turned on the stereo and with a slow sadness I danced around to an indulgently melancholic playlist. Round and round like a ghost. Barely there. Before I knew it, it was dark outside. More television. A film. And then goodnight. Sundays were all about this. Pottering about. Achieving nothing. Going nowhere. Seeing no one. Sleep. The dreamworld. Disappearing behind my closed eyes into nothingness. Oblivion. Ceasing to exist for a while. My comfort zone.
*
Monday. Good morning. Go on, knock ’em dead Silvia. Show the world you mean business. I pouted in front of the bathroom mirror. Red lipstick; a little joke I played with myself and on the world. I flipped the tube over and read the base: ‘Poppy Red’. I could remember beautiful fields of opium poppies from my childhood. My memories were nothing to smile about but I breathed in and grinned at the mirror. Now was not the time to think about any of that. If I wore nothing else, I had to wear the red lipstick. Walking through the city streets, would it dazzle them? Would I stand out? Would they think, wow, she’s special? I didn’t know, but I would have liked them to. I wanted to be the muse for a change. I ran my fingers through my long black hair, detangling it all the way down to my waist, and I stared into my blue eyes. Bluer than the ocean, my mother would say. I picked up the black eyeliner and ran a long line of it above each eye. At least you knew what you were getting with poppy red lipstick and jet-black eyeliner. Real red. Proper black.
I turned on the tap and scrubbed behind my nails. My hands were getting grubby and dry with all the chalk and charcoal these days. I rubbed moisturiser into them, paying particular attention to the long scar on my right hand. It ran from the underside of my thumb to just above my wrist. The scar. Another reminder. I strutted to the supermarket, past the flower stall, where the scent of oriental lilies and freesias was especially intense today, past the Jewish bakery, its deliciously sweet aroma making my mouth water, past the cinema, and past the same homeless guy who always stared at me as if he knew me. I stopped to look up at the sky for a brief moment, the tall buildings looming over me. I closed my eyes for a second as I breathed it all in. Hurry up. It’s Monday. There are things to get done. Must get supplies from the shop and then get back, eat, and prepare materials for today’s sessions. Max was coming at noon. Ah. Max. And who was after him? I checked my diary. Arthur.
Today would be a success. I could feel it. Today I felt a huge drive to create. I suddenly felt impatient. I felt I could rush home, get a huge slab of paper and create a masterpiece. To feel inspiration when you’re nowhere near the drawing board is easy enough. When you’re finally there with the charcoal in your hand, sometimes you feel like you’re forcing yourself to do the work.
But other times you’re lucky, and the most beautiful wave of inspiration hits when you’re sitting in front of the blank piece of paper. You can sit there for hours in a state of total flow, disconnected from the world you usually inhabit – the world of worries, unnecessary thoughts and emotions. Time does not exist and the only thing is this moment. Here. The paper, the markings, my hand, the charcoal, the process. I am not drawing. Drawing is happening. And the world as I usually know it no longer seems real at all. Sometimes I feel like I live for those moments. Sometimes I feel like they are trying to tell me something.
I was looking forward to drawing both Arthur and Max today. Their bodies inspired me – both in their own separate ways. But there’d be no sex today, I was feeling far too vulnerable. I couldn’t be bothered with that game today.
The Meaning of Meaning
Max was early as usual, which annoyed me. It made me feel rushed, and that pissed me off. He was a personal trainer with far too much time on his hands. But it was always the same when I greeted him at the door, I found him so physically attractive that it often left me feeling stupid. I don’t even know why I bothered drawing him. I really don’t know. We found each other such a turn on, his naked body showing clear signs of it every time I tried to draw him, that it just meant I spent more time in bed with him than using him as a model. So what the fuck was I paying him for? When I brought it up he said the only solution was to meet up outside of work hours. But no. I wasn’t going there. I had no interest in forming any sort of relationship with him, sexual or otherwise. There was no attraction there except for a physical one, and the sex simply wasn’t enough to draw me to him in any other way. The sex just happened because it had to. It was like scratching an itch. That’s all it was. I didn’t have to make a ritual out of it. Besides, he had already started prying into my past, so spending any more time with him would quite clearly only make that worse.
I had on many occasions contemplated firing him, but though I hated to admit it, the scratching of the itch had become addictive. Plus a series based on my drawings of him had sold pretty well after a critic had called it a ‘new and interesting line of sexual and carnal pieces, taking the artist deeper into her primal self’.
When I say critic, I should perhaps mention here that I was a very little known artist. This critic was in fact just a part-time art blogger who’d followed my work for a while, and supposed he knew something about me. About my ‘soul’. He tended to write similar types of things about other artists too, stuff that, in my opinion, sounded like the pretentious ramblings of a newly graduated History of Art student.
But oh god, how could I have resisted Max’s body? I hated myself for it, yet sometimes I felt relieved to have these simple moments that reminded me I was just another human being with instinctive impulses towards physical pleasure. It was so uncomplicated, innocent and untainted by thought. I was over-analysing it all again. I just wished I wasn’t paying money to create unfinished drawings. Perhaps unfinished drawings would be my next big thing. I was sure I could find a critic who’d come up with a suitably pretentious thing to say about that.
Here he was again at my door. No body contact at greeting, that was always the way. Over the last few days I’d actually allowed myself to think about things a little more than usual. All sorts of things. I’d allowed myself to delve a little deeper. Maybe I was just getting tired of always resisting certain thoughts. Of course I didn’t delve too deep, because there were certain thoughts I feared would lead me to a place that was far too painful for me to handle at that moment. In any case, my recent introspection meant that today I despised him a bit more than usual.
In the two hours since he’d rung the doorbell I’d managed to finish two large and fairly elaborate sketches, which I was happy with. Not once did I hesitate, I was so engrossed in drawing that I didn’t even feel turned on. It was wonderful. Today held one of those rare moments where I had become totally involved in what I was doing. It had been such a long time since I had felt like this.
Max didn’t say much, thankfully. Perhaps he felt that I was clearly uninterested in him sexually today. Maybe I came across rude. But in any case his silence made it all the more easy. What a breath of fresh air. I had enjoyed his body in a totally different way today.
At exactly 2pm I p
ut the charcoal down. I walked towards the panoramic windows and looked out at the wide San Diego skyline. For a moment I was completely oblivious to the fact I had someone in my presence. I looked out at the world, mesmerised. Feeling the effects of my creative high. It was like a drug. Max cleared his throat. I looked his way to acknowledge him and started wiping my hands clean with a piece of kitchen roll. I watched it darken as it took away the black dust from my hands. He made some other little noise to once again remind me he was there. I looked up at him and surprised myself by smiling at him. And then I looked again at the world outside.
‘What do you see when you look out of here?’ I said.
‘Huh?’
I repeated the question.
‘I swear you’ve asked me this before,’ he said, ‘well… obviously there’s buildings and stuff.’
‘No, but what do you see? What do you really see?’
I wanted him to describe the colours, tell me they were rich, dull, vibrant, whatever. I wanted to know.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
I moved towards the kitchen and asked him if he wanted anything. He sniggered.
‘Just the usual,’ he said.
I knew what he meant by that and I’d expected such a response. And with no thought, no ounce of wondering or analysing, my mind still at peace and still on a high from the full two hours of flow, I approached him smiling, stupidly, like he never usually saw me smile, and we did it right there on the sheet where he had been posing for me.
But an hour and a half later, as I was closing the door behind him, my high was replaced by a sinking feeling, like I was shrinking back to my usual constrained and restricted me. The me that I lived with on a daily basis. Heavy and solid – so different to the ‘me’ that existed in my moments of flow. In those moments I didn’t feel small and limited, I felt boundless. But the bliss was now gone and I had retracted back to the little me. The joy of simply being was replaced by the weight of being somebody: this adult called Silvia, who could never be content.
